


Benign

by Jim_Wicked



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Dark, F/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jim_Wicked/pseuds/Jim_Wicked
Summary: They’d been hopeful after surgery and chemo. But the same cells that quickly regenerated to heal The Slayer’s wounds—the same cells that kept Buffy looking healthy throughout treatment, to the amazement of oncologists—also replicated malignancies at a startling rate. After two years cycling through remission and relapse, the cancer had finally metastasized to her bones, lungs, liver, and brain.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers, Xander Harris/Dawn Summers
Comments: 28
Kudos: 49





	1. Where Have You Been?

The smell of disinfectant invaded his system as he strode down the corridor, an abrasive odor quickly followed by undertones of blood, piss, and despair. He had to squint against the assaultive brightness of harsh fluorescents. Halting at the room number he’d been given, he stared at the patient nameplate on the door.

Summers. Comma. Buffy.

He raised a fist to knock, then froze. He was reminded of her last birthday party, that same feeling of paralysis. Except there was no spell immobilizing him, only dread.

“Spike.” It was a weak whisper, but of course he heard.

He opened the door. The lights were off, the shades drawn, but he could clearly see Buffy lying in a hospital bed at the center of the room. She looked a bit thin, but otherwise unchanged. Her hair still shampoo-commercial perfect, green eyes still bright and clear, widening the way they did when she was close to crying. The way they had when she said she loved him.

“Hello, cutie.”

Approaching her, he caught a scent—sickly sweet, like overripened fruit. It was faint but unmistakable. The smell of a body shutting down.

“Where have you _been_?”

“Hell an’ back, pet.”

“I had to find out from Andrew, of all people.”

“I know.”

“Three years ago.”

Spike hadn’t expected the little twerp to keep his gob shut for long. “I know.”

“I couldn’t find you. And you never contacted me.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

What a question. There was no satisfactory answer. The reasons seemed flimsy now he was near her again. “I was a bleedin’ coward,” he offered.

“What did you have to be afraid of?”

She still didn’t get it. In all his unlife, loving her was the only thing that had ever frightened him.

“Last you saw me…” He took her hand, lacing their fingers. For a moment he thought he could feel flames, but it was only the fever she was running. “I will never be better than that moment. An’ I thought _we_ would never be better than that moment. Reckoned the best I could do was leave you be.”

“Who are you? You sound like Angel.” she pulled away and rolled over, showing him her back—the outline of each vertebra visible beneath her gown. “I’m tired of men deciding what’s best for me.”

“That’s not what I—” he started, then realized it didn’t matter. Whatever his intentions, he hadn’t given her the opportunity to disagree. It never occurred to him that she might. “I’m sorry, Slayer.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m no Slayer. Not anymore.”

 _Well, fuck_. “Look at me, luv.”

She lay still for several seconds before turning toward him, her face streaked with tears.

“Nothing changes who you are,” he said.

“Everything has changed,” she replied scornfully. “I’m dying.”

There it was.

“Don’t say that.”

“A slow, pathetic, _human_ death. Not the way a Slayer should go out.”

“You’re strong. You’ll beat this, like everythin’ else.” It was difficult to tell which of them he was trying to convince.

She scoffed. “This is cancer, not some demon. Game over. Too soon.”

Poor girl. She had finally earned her freedom. To choose, instead of being Chosen. To live as she pleased. Anger ignited like a match; Spike struggled not to vamp out. His demon was clamoring to surface—rattle the windows with its roar and go on a rampage through this hospital, snapping the necks of every useless doctor failing to save her. He wanted someone to blame, but there were only The Powers That Be. When all was said and fucking done, those worthless buggers would have much to answer for.

“Do you like being a vampire?”

The question saddened him but didn’t shock. How could she not wonder?

“We shouldn’t travel that road, pet.”

“It used to be my greatest fear, but sometimes I think…must be nice.”

“Buffy.” He paused, selfishly considering the possibility. It would work. “It won’t help,” he finished.

She stared at her lap, plucked at the bedclothes. “No. It won’t.”

He heard footsteps and Dawn walked in looking haggard. Her expression crumpled when she saw him; she threw herself against him, her arms wound tightly around his neck. He let her embrace him, placing one hand softly on her back. He could feel her shudder with suppressed sobs.

“It’s alright, Nibblet,” he said gently. “Steady on.”

Dawn sniffled, releasing him and stepping back to peer into his face.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Still not that,” he replied with an artificial lightness.

Her answering laugh sounded just as hollow. “You know what I mean.”

“An’ where are the others? Figured they’d be hoverin’ around.”

“I asked them to wait ‘til later tonight. I wanted to see you first,” Buffy said. "There’s something…” She shared a puzzling look with her sister.

“It’s your choice.” Dawn prodded.

Buffy hesitated again, then took a deep breath. “I’m declining further treatment. At most it would delay the inevitable and make me feel like shit meanwhile. That’s not what I want. I won’t waste what time I have left shut away from the world.”

“How much time?” he asked around the growing lump in his throat.

“Doctors say six months. Give or take. I’ll be discharged in a few days.”

“Where will you go?”

“She has an apartment in the city, but she shouldn't live alone anymore,” Dawn interjected, “I planned on moving in with her.”

“Yeah?” he asked, feeling uneasy.

“I’d rather it be you.”

Spike searched Buffy’s expression for signs of uncertainty; she was quick to fill the silence. “I mean, if you’d like. It’s ok if you don’t want… if there’s somewhere you need to be…if there’s someone else...” She blushed and looked away.

_Oh._

In his periphery, he saw Dawn leave the room, heard the quiet click of the door as it closed behind her.

“There’s no one else, luv,” he murmured.

She faced him again, wiping wet cheeks with her fingers. “I cry at the drop of a hat these days. I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Tended to Dru for over a century, didn’t I? Emotional wrecks are my specialty.”

The ghost of a smile played on her lips, disappearing long before it reached her eyes.

“I’m scared, Spike.”

The reality of those words stung like a slap.

* * *

He lit a cigarette well within twenty feet of the hospital entrance. A passing custodian began to object, but with a glare and a raise of one eyebrow Spike made the man close his mouth and quicken his pace. Intimidating a human was a cheap thrill, but he was in a shit mood.

_Where have you been?_

Fuck if he knew. The last three years were comprised of fuzzy, alcohol-soaked memories all meshed together. It felt as though he’d been sleepwalking since the battle in L.A.

He and Angel had only survived because Big Blue used the last of her fractured power to open a portal and drag the horde to hell. Spike didn’t know what had become of her. He hoped she wasn’t suffering too much on their account.

When it was over, two ensouled vampires stood alone in the alley. They found a spot to give Gunn a proper burial, then returned to the Hyperion and attempted to stay out of one another’s way. But with nothing else to distract them it was only a matter of time before they came to blows. Spike couldn’t remember what started the fight or how it ended, only that he’d chosen to leave soon after.

He drifted, not sure of his place in The Mission anymore, or if he wanted one. Slayers were abundant, and he felt no desire to throw in his lot with the Scoobies again. He killed demons where he found them, but didn’t actively search them out unless he was spoiling for a fight. If he met a bird he fancied, he’d have her, though it never went beyond hedonism.

Without purpose he grew restless. The desire to go to Buffy was constant, a dull ache in his chest, but when he pictured her on that dance floor in Rome, at ease for the first time since she was fifteen, he couldn’t justify imposing upon her, dragging her back into their complicated past.

Eventually he landed in London, hoping a return to the familiarity of England might ground him. He’d only been there a few weeks when a letter from Dawn arrived.

_She’s asking for you. Please come._

That same night he was in Southampton boarding an ocean liner to New York—and Memorial Sloane Kettering. It had taken a sodding week, but travelling by boat was safest for the highly combustible.

“Spike? You ok?”

The cigarette between his fingers had burned to the filter while he brooded. Flicking the butt into the darkness, he glanced at Dawn standing beside him.

“I’m fine, Bit.” He supposed he’d have to retire the old nicknames; the girl must be at least twenty by now.

“Buffy’s sleeping. I was going to grab some coffee. Want anything?”

He shook his head.

She angled her head toward the building, “Walk with me? I could use the company.”

Spike shoved his hands in his duster pockets and followed Dawn inside. They fell into step.

“Thanks for doing this. Staying with her.”

“Don’t consider it a chore.”

“Of course. Still, I didn’t want to assume you’d be, uh, available.”

“It’s Buffy,” he said simply.

Reaching the cafeteria, Spike found a seat while Dawn went to the counter. She returned with a cuppa and an open bag of crisps, sank into the chair across from him and poured several packets of sugar into her drink.

“How are _you,_ then?”

She shrugged helplessly. “This isn’t about me.”

No, it never was. He had always pitied her for that.

“Bullshit.”

“Wait, what?” Dawn asked incredulously.

“Preparing to lose Big Sis for the second time in six years? That’s fucked, and you’re allowed to say so.”

“I have to respect her decision. She’s been fighting for a long time. She needs support.”

“An’ so do you. Keep playin’ perfect little nursemaid all alone, you’re gonna drop. By the looks of it, sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks a lot,” she replied dryly, raking her fingers through lank, unwashed hair.

“Just sayin’, I’m here now. Take care of yourself.” He smirked and added, “Better yet, let Harris take care of you.”

She looked surprised. “How did you—”

“How do you think?”

Dawn grimaced, scrunching up her nose. “Don’t _smell_ me, Spike.”

“Not much choice in the matter; that’d be like me telling you to walk about with your eyes closed.”

“Doesn’t make it less disturbing. How do you even recognize his scent?”

“Got a good memory. That an’ I spent far too much time stuck livin’ with him.” He reached across the table to snag one of her Lay’s. “Who else knows?”

“Now’s really not the time for a big reveal. We haven’t told anyone, with the obvious exception of Willow.”

“Speaking of, reckon it was she magicked that letter to my door.”

“I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

“Better than the bloody post, innit?”

“Are you going to tell Buffy? About me and Xander, I mean.”

“Not my secret to spill.”

“Thank you.”

“Just so long as he doesn’t bollocks it up. I’d hate to have to remind him how chip-less I am these days.”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. ‘Hurt her and I’ll eat you.’ Got it.”

“The soul hasn’t done much for my violent streak.”

“Spike. I can handle myself.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Summers women always can.”

At this they grew somber, retreating into their own minds. Spike was first to break the silence.

“That letter didn’t have much in the way of details. What’s the story?”

Dawn drained the rest of her coffee and began tearing the Styrofoam cup to pieces. “It started with a small lump in her breast. She caught it early. The doctors were optimistic, at least at first.”

They’d been hopeful after surgery and chemo. But the same cells that quickly regenerated to heal The Slayer’s wounds—the same cells that kept Buffy looking healthy throughout treatment, to the amazement of oncologists—also replicated malignancies at a startling rate. After two years cycling through remission and relapse, the cancer had finally metastasized to her bones, lungs, liver, and brain. Stage IV.

“The chance of five-year-survival is typically twenty-two percent, but as always, Buffy is extraordinary,” Dawn said, bitter as acid. “It just…keeps spreading.”

Her grief and exhaustion were palpable. In that moment she seemed terribly old.

There was nothing Spike could say to bring her relief, so he said nothing.


	2. I Always Want You

Spike and Dawn returned to Buffy’s door and the sound of a Scooby meeting in full swing.

_“I respect your right to decide what’s best for yourself. We’re simply concerned. I may not be your Watcher any longer, but The Council still has a responsibility to you. If it’s a matter of finances—”_

_No. No more; the treatments make me feel worse than the disease itself. I don’t want an extra few months if I’m spending them in a sickbed.”_

_“I could cast another healing spell? There has to be something I haven’t tried.”_

_“We both know magic isn’t the answer. Nothing is going to fix this. I’ve accepted it. Now you guys need to.”_

_“I get that, Buff. But…shacking up with Captain Peroxide? How is_ that _a good idea?”_

Rupert, Willow, and Xander, in that order. Angel’s voice was absent, But Spike was certain he was there, brooding.

“Balls,” Spike muttered. It was going to be a long night.

He and Dawn entered the room to find the gang forming a semi-circle around Buffy’s bed. Angel stood closest, no surprise there. At any other time, Spike would take the petty route, put himself between them, say something shirty to his grandsire, maybe something provocative to Buffy for good measure. But the Slayer didn’t need him making a fuss, so he decided to behave himself. Mostly.

“Quite the reunion we’re having, yeah?” he asked, hooking a thumb behind his belt buckle and leaning against the wall. “They givin’ you trouble, pet?”

Buffy managed a watery smile. “I was worried you’d left.”

“Not goin’ anywhere.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re not,” Angel said, glowering at him. “You must be loving this.”

“Riiight,” Spike drawled. “My girl’s sufferin’, but that’s a small price to pay if it means we finally make a go of it,” he said, overtly sardonic. “Get fucked, old man.”

Angel looked ready to cross the room and start a punch-up. Spike could use the release of a good brawl, but of course that would get them all tossed from the place, and stress Buffy, besides.

“Back off, Angel,” Dawn intervened, positioning herself between the two rivals. “Don’t make this harder for her. Spike is staying.”

Xander huffed. “C’mon Dawn. You’ve always had a soft spot for the guy, but let’s be serious here.”

“Are _you_ serious right now? She’s made her choice; learn to deal.” Dawn turned from Xander to address the entire room. “Look, everybody can either leave Spike out of this and stop giving my sister shit, or _walk_.”

She then pinned Angel with a withering glare that screamed _just fucking try me._ Spike was proud of her; not on his behalf, but Buffy’s. Dawn had taken on the weighty burden of protector her sister had shouldered for years.

After a moment of silence, Red spoke up. “You’re sure about this?” She kept her eyes locked on Buffy, deliberately avoiding Spike.

“I am.”

The group heaved a silent collective sigh. Whether it was acceptance or disappointment was irrelevant to Spike. It was done.

He gave Dawn an appreciative nod. “Thanks for reinin’ in the sidekicks, Platelet.”

“Hush, you,” Buffy said.

He raised his hands in a 'don’t shoot' gesture.

“Now, if anyone has any questions _not_ related to my personal life…” She scanned her friends’ drawn faces. When no one responded, she seemed immediately exhausted, lying back in bed like a deflated balloon. “I think I’m done for the night.”

The gang said their goodbyes one at a time, single file, like the receiving line at a funeral. Angel hung back until everyone else had stepped into the hall, then approached Spike.

“You’ll take care of her?” He sounded predictably unconvinced.

“I’ve got it sorted, mate.”

“Angel, I’ll be fine.” Buffy said softly. “I’m cookies.”

* * *

As he headed to actually have a smoke _for fuck’s sake_ , Spike heard Giles calling after him. He kept walking.

Catching up with the vampire outside, Giles said, “I realize that wasn’t a…warm…reception. This hasn’t been easy for any of us.”

“Sure. Good thing I don’t put much stock in Xander’s approval. Or Angel’s.” Spike pulled out his pack of Marlboros, withdrew one and counted the remainder—four left, he’d have to make them stretch. “Especially Angel’s,” he added.

“I was surprised to hear you had survived Sunnydale.”

“Andrew has a big mouth, the ponce,” Spike replied, lighting his cigarette and roughly snapping the Zippo’s lid shut. He was becoming irritated. “An’ I _didn’t_ survive Sunnydale. Burned up tearing the miserable place down. Which, I’ll admit, was rather satisfying.”

“Yes. Um.” Giles looked discomfited, removing his spectacles to clean them. “I—what I intended to say…how are you?” he ended lamely.

Spike could barely resist the urge to blow smoke in the Watcher’s face. “Fuck do you care?”

“I suppose I deserve that.” Giles settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Bloody right you do,” Spike sneered. “Fred was a sweet little thing. Kind to me.”

Giles put his hands in tweed pockets. Eyes downcast, he said, “There was nothing to be done.”

“Didn’t know that when you cold-shouldered us, though, did you?”

“I have spoken with Angel about that mistake. I believe he’s forgiven me.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not so easy.” Spike ashed his cigarette, took another drag. “Wasn’t the first time your assumptions cost me.”

“We never had a chance to discuss what happened, with Wood. I owe you an apology.” Giles extended a hand, which Spike ignored.

“You don’t owe me shit, Watcher,” he scoffed. “Just don’t try an’ run me off.”

“This was Buffy's decision. I won’t interfere.”

“All I’m asking,” Spike replied, dropping his cherry on the ground and crushing it beneath the toe of his boot. “Keep the kiddies out of my way as well.”

“I will. Although, I think Dawn took care of them for you.”

“Good girl, that one.”

“Quite.”

They stood in semi-companionable silence for a minute before Giles cleared his throat and said, “I’ll visit again tomorrow. I’m in town indefinitely. Until…”

Neither man wanted to finish that sentence. 

* * *

It was too quiet. But then, it would be. Death was the only activity on this floor, and everyone was attempting—futilely—to do it in peace.

Spike sat vigil at Buffy's bedside and engaged in an equally pointless struggle not to picture the inevitable.

Existing moment-to-moment came naturally to vampires, Spike in particular. The past couldn’t be changed, the future couldn’t be avoided, so best not to dwell on either. That wasn’t possible anymore—another casualty of loving Buffy. Her mortality had always posed a risk, but it was relatively manageable as long as the danger came from something she could fight with her fists. Being killed in battle was a possibility every warrior had to confront, himself included, but he couldn’t make this ending lie flat in his mind. She deserved better than...how had she put it? A slow, pathetic, human death.

_Do you like being a vampire?_

He did, which was precisely why he'd side-stepped the question. Even while drinking from the Cup of Perpetual Bullshit, he knew it was victory he was after, not humanity. He hadn’t thought further than taking something from Angel, who’d stolen so much from him.

Spike’s moral code was not black-and-white; even with his conscience restored he’d never be completely reformed. He enjoyed violence—the feel of a blow connecting, the sound of a fractured bone, a cleanly snapped neck. He reveled in the strength and power of his demon. His prey had changed, but he was still a predator, and he still considered his first death an evolution.

Spike couldn’t imagine being anything except what he was, but vampirism would ruin Buffy, just as it had his mum—strip away her righteousness, twist her affections, make her hate him. If she didn’t try to stake him as soon as she turned, her pals undoubtedly would.

It was torturous, possessing the ability to save her at any moment yet knowing it wasn’t an option. His love, while always fierce and all-encompassing, had matured. It was the soul’s biggest accomplishment. He’d once desired to _have_ Buffy, keep her for himself, no matter the damage done to either one of them. Now…he wanted what was good for her, even if it meant letting her die.

* * *

The reformed Watcher’s Council, headed by Giles, had made certain their veteran warrior was financially secure. It was fortunate that all Potentials had been activated, and that Buffy was out of succession. In his Slayer-hunting days, a gravely injured or ill Chosen One was always handled the same way—and it didn’t involve a furnished apartment on the Upper East Side.

“Nice digs,” he remarked when the elevator doors opened.

Buffy grinned. She’d been doing that a lot more; he was glad for each one sent his direction. “Come in, Spike,” she said, taking his bags and leading him into the Penthouse. She gave him the tour, moving excitedly from room to room and talking a blue streak about walk-in closets, heated bathroom floors, and kitchen appliances that bordered on sentience.

He spent more time observing her than listening. She was far from frail, his girl, yet he suspected she was masking a great deal of pain. She’d refused palliative medications upon discharge from the hospital, not wanting to remain as bleary and sapped as she had been during her stay. Her doctor had pulled Spike aside, outlined the progression of her illness, and handed him prescriptions to fill when she could no longer bear it.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I asked if you’d like to see the bedroom. It will be daylight in a few hours. I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

He’d kept constant watch over Buffy the past two days. Only after she’d left with Dawn to get settled at home did he go looking for the essentials: blood, booze, and tobacco.

“Could do with a kip, yeah.”

He followed her to the master suite. The King-sized mattress looked inviting; the floor-to-ceiling windows did not.

“We’ll need curtains, unless you’d prefer waking up next to a pile of dust.”

“I had The Council install necro-tempered glass in every room.”

“When’d you manage that?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Months ago.”

“Bold of you,” he said. “An’ all that worry about whether I’d be stickin’ around?”

Another genuine smile; a bloke could get used to this. “It’s easy to gamble with someone else’s money.”

"That it is."

He smirked at her, then slipped out of his duster, pulled off his t-shirt, boots, and socks. It wasn’t until he unbuttoned his jeans that Buffy averted her eyes—grabbing the coat to hang in her closet, then stepping past him toward the door.

“I’ll let you rest.”

“I’d rather you join me.”

She seemed apprehensive, fidgeting with her hands, gaze glued to the floor as he finished disrobing.

“Spike…”

“Not expectin’ anything.” He slid between the sheets and extended a hand. “Just come lie down.”

* * *

Huddled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, Buffy twitched and whimpered in fitful sleep. Heat radiated from her, along with that caustic saccharine tinge to her lovely girl-smell. She was clad in a camisole and underwear; the feel of her against his skin was both arousing and alarming.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she mumbled into his neck. 

“I was, for a bit. Don’t need much at my age.” He smoothed her hair with one hand. “Did I wake you?”

“Um. Parts of you did,” she replied, pulling away slightly to glance between their bodies.

He chuckled. “Can’t be helped with you so close. It’ll pass.”

“I wasn’t complaining. It’s just…been a long time.”

“Said I’m not asking for anything.”

She was quiet for a moment; he could sense her ambivalence. “My body isn’t what it was.”

“Doesn’t matter, luv.”

“Yes, it does. You might not want me.”

“Bollocks.” He hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her head back to watch her expression. “I always want you.”

Her kiss was sudden and desperate, tongue probing as if she were chasing his words. She threw a leg over his pelvis; he grabbed her ass and pulled her closer, snugged up against his erection. The lace of her panties dampened. In a single fluid motion, Buffy pushed Spike onto his back, pulled her thong to one side and sank onto him with a low moan. “Oh, God.” She contracted her pelvic floor; his answering thrust was automatic.

“Bloody hell.” His fingers went to the flat plane of her stomach, then slid beneath her shirt.

She grabbed his left wrist. “Don’t.”

Spike stopped immediately; there were lines he could never cross again. “Easy. ‘S all right.”

Releasing her grip on his arm, Buffy began a slow ride. She leaned over him, her hair falling around her face and sweeping across his arms and chest, her breath hitching each time she ground against his pubic bone.

She said, “I’ve _missed_ you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned. “Slayer.”

“I told you, stop calling me that.”

Spike took her face in his hands.

“Slayer.”

Buffy squeezed her lids shut.

“ _Slayer._ Open your eyes.”

Wet lashes parted, green eyes shining. “That is who you are.” He brought up his demon, sharp ridges and sharper fangs. “ _This_ is what we’ll always be. A vampire in love with the Slayer.”

Her brow furrowed. “You love me?”

She actually sounded doubtful. Jesus fuck, how this disease had destroyed her.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t seen you in four years.”

“An eyeblink in eternity. Hasn’t changed anything.”

“Tell me.”

Spike shifted back into his human visage, so she would see him clearly. “I love you.”

“I wish you hadn’t stayed away.” A sob caught in her throat, coming out like a hiccup. “I wish you had believed me. I meant it. I did. I _do._ ”

“Don’t say it.” He kissed her quiet, tasting the salt on her skin. “Show me.”

She sat up straight, still moving on him. Watching her, the graceful roll of her hips, he couldn’t help but think of their first time, how they’d remained connected even after crashing through the floor.

She grabbed the hem of her camisole, pulled it up and off to expose her chest, which had been reconstructed after a double mastectomy. Her breasts were full and hung naturally; even her nipples had been carefully recreated, then tattooed to match the color of their predecessors. Due to the surgeon’s skill and the Slayer’s constitution, there was minimal scarring.

She blushed; Spike could tell it was a great effort for her not not to turn away from him. “They’re—”

“Beautiful.” He laid her on her back, kissed each of her tits, then draped her legs over his shoulders. “ _You_ are still beautiful, Buffy.”

"Am I?" she asked, using her fingertip to trace the shape of the scar through his eyebrow, the line of one cheekbone. She said, “Show me.”


	3. Death & Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not read the comics, so this story is based only on the shows' canon. One exception: I decided to ignore the destruction of Spike's original duster, because I prefer it that way.

She wanted Spike's weight on her, his body covering hers like a favored blanket. But pressure only increased this already-indescribable pain, which appeared to have no root because it existed everywhere at once. She'd been told it was caused by tumors pressing against nerves, invading bones, inflaming soft tissue. She'd been told it would get worse.

At the first sign of her discomfort, Spike rearranged their position so he was spooned around her, entering her from behind, one hand slipping between her thighs. She backed into his slow, deep thrusts, gripping him with her inner muscles on every upstroke.

A succession of orgasms bloomed from her core, spreading outward like bombs, blast waves overpowering the otherwise interminable ache.

When she started to cry, Spike assumed he'd hurt her, and his concern only made her cry harder, beg him not to stop. How intense, fucking and loving him simultaneously. She'd experienced first one, then the other, but not both. She realized this was how he'd felt before, even while they crashed around his crypt, screwed on the grass in her front yard. _He's not getting any gentler_.

He'd never been so careful with her. No binding, no bruising, no destruction of property. It overwhelmed her, his tenderness—and her own.

She gasped his name, scrambling toward another climax, then tumbled over the edge with a shout. Her growling vampire followed after.

* * *

They lay together watching the sky brighten. She'd seen Spike during the day many times; he'd always treated the sun as a minor inconvenience. This was different, though, their tangled limbs bathed in light, the rays harmlessly playing over his bare skin. Another thing they'd never done, all cuddled up and basking in the afterglow. She marveled at the beauty of it, wondered how many mornings like this they would have. Whatever the number, it wouldn't be enough.

They could have had four years of mornings, if he'd only believed her. Spike had once been fully convinced he owned her heart, long before she was ready to give it. What did it say about her, that she wasn't trustworthy even at her rawest moment? She'd considered asking him back at the hospital, but hadn't been ready for the answer, hadn't the energy for an argument.

"I love you, Spike." she said. "It's important to me that you know it."

He kissed her shoulder, his lips cool on her overheated skin. "I hear you, baby. Loud an' clear. Stop frettin' over it."

"But you—"

"Accepting a thing like that," he cut in, his mouth at her ear. "Would've made it impossible not to follow you out of that crater. I couldn't."

The sound of his voice, the tickle of borrowed breath, raised gooseflesh. She turned in his arms, looked into those eyes that saw her like no one else ever had.

"I get that."

She had a similar reason for not insisting upon her sincerity at the time. If she had convinced him, how could she have left him to burn?

"We've no use for regrets, you and I," he said.

After learning of Spike's continued existence, Buffy spent hours combing through their history, thorough as a nurse searching for nits—every way they'd misunderstood and harmed one another, intentionally or otherwise. Nearing the end of her life, she was compelled to reexamine how she'd lived it, but what good would it do?

"You're right," she said.

Spike sat up against the upholstered headboard. "Excuse me, what was that?"

" _That_ I won't be repeating." Buffy smiled. She lay supine on the mattress, stretching luxuriously. She could feel Spike's gaze traveling along her nakedness, but had no urge to cover herself. She felt as if she were floating, ethereal and giddy. Thoroughly content for the first time in she-didn't-know-when.

Spike reached for the cigarettes he'd discarded on the bedside table while undressing. Picked them up, put them back down.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Fancy a smoke," he said, glancing out the window. "It'll have to wait."

"Go ahead. You used to smoke in my house all the time." Buffy rolled onto her stomach, tried to conceal the reflexive wince. Reaching past Spike to grab his pack and lighter, she offered them to him. "Not like I'll get _more_ cancer," she joked.

His expression clouded; he took the items from her, stared at them like he had no idea why they were in his grip. She swallowed her laughter. "Terminal illness humor is only funny to me, isn't it? I just meant, you know, it's ok. I want you to feel at home. Shit. I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to apologize for," he said. Several seconds passed before he finally shook out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled deeply, blew smoke toward the ceiling. "You don't deserve this, is all."

Did she not? Buffy wasn't so sure. She suspected she was being punished. For coming back. For destroying the Chosen line, living longer than any Slayer had a right to.

For falling in love with vampires.

"Life isn't a meritocracy." She watched smoke curl from the tip of his cigarette. "What's the line? Only the good die young."

"Aye," he said, looking around for something to use as an ashtray. "A pity, that."

_Maybe._

Buffy handed him a water glass from her nightstand. "There are worse things," she said.

If not for evil's ability to cheat death, Spike wouldn't be here, with his unequivocal adoration, his sexual magic, his strength. All for her. And she needed it all.

* * *

"Hah! Got it!"

"Fuck!"

Buffy swept the pile of cards from the center of the dining table, stacking them neatly at her end. She nodded at the shot glass in front of Spike. "Drink."

He threw back the whiskey, poured another shot for the next round's loser. "Ready?"

She nodded. "Go."

They flipped cards over, one on top of the other. After a dozen or so, she saw the jack of spades land, but Spike beat her to it, bringing his hand down on the pile first. Buffy took her shot without pulling a face or making a sound, slammed the glass on the table. The bourbon was smooth, warm all the way down.

"Learned to hold your liquor, have you?"

"I'm all grown up."

"An' so you are," he said, giving her one of those slow, lascivious grins paired with elevator eyes—a look that never ceased to quicken her pulse, bring heat to her skin.

"One more?" she asked, setting up another shot.

He grunted. "Rather play poker. Or Rummy."

"Nope. Testing my reflexes, here."

"I can think of better methods."

She felt his hand slide up her bare leg, under her shortie nightgown. He was insatiable. They had been going at it on and off all day, and without her typical endurance she was exhausted. Still, she couldn't help but part her legs for him.

"Focus, Spike," she said with faux seriousness. "If you want to keep your hand there, fine, but it's going to work against you."

He squeezed her inner thigh before picking up his half of the deck. "On your mark, Slayer."

She'd stopped discouraging him from using the epithet; he was so goddamn persistent.

"Go." Cards were hastily discarded. She threw down a 10 of diamonds right after his 10 of clubs and slapped the pile. "Sandwich!"

"Thought we were aimin' for jacks. What the fuck is a 'sandwich'?"

"Doubles." She pushed the glass toward him with her index finger. "You weren't paying attention when I explained the rules."

As he swallowed his liquor, Buffy watched his Adam's apple bob and had the sudden impulse to kiss it. She was tipsy and feeling sweet.

"This game is bloody stupid," Spike said, helping himself to another shot before leaning back in his chair. He was shirtless, black jeans unfastened, hair tousled into soft curls.

Buffy stood and stepped over to him, settled herself on his lap.

"And yet, you're playing."

"Well, yeah. Anythin' for you, luv."

He swept her hair to one side and kissed her neck, nipping at the skin with blunt teeth, sending a jolt straight through her.

"Anything?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder, spreading her legs, an invitation.

His nimble fingers went to work, playing her like a cherished guitar. "If it's in my power, consider it done."

She began to pant, writhing in his lap. "Don't forget that."

"Never." He slipped two digits inside, her swollen clit slick under his thumb. "An' what would you like right now, Buffy?"

Her legs trembled; her fingernails scratched at the denim of his pantleg. Tension built, anticipation and a touch of nerves, like a rollercoaster's ascent. "Yes…there… _oh, God_ …"

"That's it, pet," he said. "Come for me."

She clenched around his fingers, shuddered into orgasm. Grabbing the back of his neck, she kissed him deeply, catching his lower lip between her teeth.

Spike rose from the chair and lifted her onto the tabletop. She slid to the edge and wrapped her legs around him, then lay down on polished mahogany, tilting her head back to see across the apartment, through the windows to the reddening sky.

"Fuck me until the sun goes down," she said, lifting her hips to receive him. "Then I'd like to go out."

* * *

Buffy scrutinized her reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on her closet door. It had been months since she'd applied make-up or styled her hair. Aside from the noticeable weight loss, she looked like her old self. It had only taken an hour and three costume changes. She'd settled on a pink button-front maxi dress, floral printed and short-sleeved, the fabric light, flowing. She had originally attempted jeans, a halter top, but anything form-fitting was like sandpaper against her skin.

She sensed rather than saw Spike come up behind her a moment before steel-cabled arms encircled her slim waist. Leaning against his chest, she watched her hair run through invisible fingers, inhaled the familiar scent of leather and tobacco.

"It's funny. This will be our first date."

"Fitting. We've always been at sixes and sevens," Spike said, nuzzling her. "Cab's on its way, luv."

In the elevator, and the lobby, and the backseat of the taxi, they made out like hormone-addled teens. She couldn't keep her hands off him, needing constant reassurance that he was here, and hers. Not that Spike protested; he was as shameless as ever.

Stumbling out of the cab in the East Village, Buffy teetered on stiletto sandals.

"Careful, Slayer," Spike said, catching her elbow to steady her. "We need to get you some nosh."

" _Nosh_." She emitted a girlish giggle—Jesus, she must be drunk—then spotted a nearby food stand on the curb. "Here," she said.

"I'm sure we can do better than a hot dog."

"Spike. I haven't eaten processed meat in years. _Years."_ She ordered quickly, rattling off toppings to the proprietor, staring intently while he piled them on. "It was strictly forbidden as part of my Big C nutrition plan," she said, accepting the loaded bun. She took a large bite—there would only be two—and groaned appreciatively.

Spike raised his scarred brow, blue eyes bright with amusement. "Feel better?"

"It's the little things," she said glibly.

"Want another?"

She shook her head, then checked her face in a compact mirror, using a fingertip to fix the blurred line of lipstick at the corner of her mouth.

Spike pulled a few bills from his duster pocket, left them on the cart. He always seemed to have cash, even after he was no longer the Scoobies' local mercenary. Aside from the whole "Doctor" debacle, Buffy had no idea where or how he got his money, and never asked. Didn't matter.

"Where we headed, honey?"

"This new bar," she said. "A block or so from here."

He paused to light a cigarette. "No smoking indoors," he scoffed. "Manhattan was a lot more fun in the '70s."

As they walked down E 6th St, weaving through a throng of hurried people, Buffy tried to picture Spike here, back then. Coming to hunt Nikki down, staying for the punk scene. She realized how little she knew about him, really. He'd spoken of his mediocre beginnings, how he'd been turned, and how he'd turned over his entire existence to Drusilla. Beyond that, and his Slayer slaying, his past was a long hallway lined with closed doors. When he'd been chained to a wall in the Revello Drive basement, asking to be killed, he'd told Buffy— _warned_ her—that she'd never truly met him. She'd dismissed it, fixated on making him understand how he'd changed, how she had. But now she wanted to know everything, even the ugly parts. She wanted to _see_ him _,_ the way she'd been too naïve to see Angel, too young. The way Spike so thoroughly saw _her_.

She wasn't certain how much he'd show her; what he'd be willing to reveal about the destruction he'd caused as a soulless vampire, his big evil that was only rivaled by Angelus.

There was a time when it had repulsed as much as thrilled her, her attraction to an unrepentant demon. However all-encompassing, Spike's love was no substitute for benevolence; he'd stacked good deeds out of devotion to her, but he hadn't understood the gravity of a conscience until he'd burdened himself with one.

For her.

_Bit worse for lack of use._

She wondered how long before he'd regret that eternal encumbrance, once she was gone for good.

Suddenly anxious, Buffy grasped Spike's hand. He glanced at their intertwined fingers. "What's this, then?" he asked with a sly smile. "Out an' about, holdin' hands, like a proper pair. Bloody hell. Startin' to think I've taken a blow to the head."

She grew solemn, stood still so she could look him in the eye. "No time for half-measures, Spike," she said. "I'm all in. All yours."

He didn't speak, but his thumb began tracing small circles on her palm. Her stomach flipped as though he'd stuck a hand up her skirt. Would she live long enough for these butterflies to die? Did she want to?

* * *

The bar was a fashionable 21st century hipster interpretation of a speakeasy—candle-lit and low-ceilinged, bartenders in suit vests, rolled shirtsleeves and bowties.

They chose a corner booth farthest away from other patrons. Tucking herself under the arm Spike had slung across the back of the bench seat, she set her cheek against well-worn leather, softened with age. She wouldn't admit it aloud, considering he'd stripped the coat from a fellow Slayer's corpse, but she loved the look of his duster, the feel. Spike wasn't himself without it, and all it represented—silent, ever-present proof of danger.

It had been cruel of her, pressuring him while gearing up to take on The First, essentially telling him _get the fuck over it_ when he was at his most insecure, the soul torturing and inhibiting him. But she'd required his skill, her strongest fighter, a loaded weapon she could aim wherever needed. There was a sense of relief—and yes, desire—seeing him that night, back in black, his swagger returned, the consummate mix of monster and man.

He'd always known where she lived.

A server approached their table. Scanning the menu, each cocktail composition sounded pretentious and overly complicated, so Buffy chose based on title alone, a drink named for a Radiohead album. Spike was having nothing to do with mixology. He ordered a scotch, neat, using a tone that discouraged any well-meaning attempts at persuasion.

Returning with their glasses, the waiter smiled at Buffy and avoided eye contact with Spike, as if he were trying not to provoke an aggressive dog. She was reminded how, aside from the woman he loved and the few others he respected, Spike was rarely sociable. Maybe it should have bothered her, but his playing well with others was low on her priority list, especially now she wanted him to herself.

"Nothin' like the blind tigers of the '20s," Spike said swirling his whiskey. "But this joint is above board, so that's to be expected."

Her drink tasted of grapefruit and honey, the strong bite of gin. "You were in the States during Prohibition?"

" 'Course," he said. "There's always more fun to be had when vices go underground. Seemed like a good time, so we headed over. Stayed 'til the Crash."

"Where?"

"Chicago for a few years, creatin' chaos in Murder City," he said. "When we got bored, hopped a train to New Orleans. Dru was keen on the French Quarter, Jazz and Voodoo and free-spirited girls. She looked quite fetching dolled up like a flapper. Even bobbed her hair."

His mention of Drusilla was jarring. The two vampires had spent so long together. Buffy felt a twinge of jealousy for how little time she and Spike would have in comparison.

"Do you still love her?" she asked. "Honestly."

Spike took a drink, sighed. "Bit more complicated than that, innit? Drusilla was my sire, an' the center of my existence for over a century. It's not a bond that breaks, but it's also not same as it was. I love _you._ "

"You never tracked her down, after you left LA?"

"Considered it, sure. But I don't walk in her world any longer, so what would be the point?"

"You miss her, though. You must."

"What are you gettin' at, Slayer?" He sounded agitated, suspicious, expecting a trap.

Buffy stared into her brightly colored drink. "You'll be alone soon," she said. "Have you thought about that?" Tears burned the back of her eyeballs, she tried to blink them away, swallowed more alcohol just to have something else to do.

_Don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tfuckingcry._

Spike's expression softened. "Been alone before, luv." He lowered his arm to her waist, pulled her in closer. "Managed fine the last few years, besides."

"Fine, but not well. C'mon, Spike. You're lost without a woman to love."

"Not denyin' it. But that's nothin' you need to worry over," he said. "Let me look after you."

When he kissed her, she wound her arms around his neck and shimmied into his lap. She poured her sadness into the kiss, her fear and desperation. She knew Spike could feel it, and that he'd shoulder the crushing weight of this anguish, help her carry it for a while.


	4. Borrowed Time

Buffy tried to hold onto the sweetest moments, stretch them like taffy. Instead, entire days slipped through her fingers, as if she were being swept downriver, struggling to escape a strong current, her pockets loaded with stones.

Spike’s presence was a salve, but as the first month passed in what felt like an instant, a growing panic sprouted from the knowledge of their dwindling time together. She attempted to shove years’ worth of sex and touch and talk into their cohabitation—this miniature country they occupied, population of two. He readily indulged her, even tolerating her sudden need to pry into his unlife.

“Why did you use railroad spikes?” She asked while they were sprawled together after an early-morning screw that had her screaming his chosen name.

“Lovely pillow talk, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious. I want to know.”

“Got the idea from a bloke who injured my pride—what little pride I had as a human. Soon after I turned, went out of my way to thank him for the inspiration. Slowly.” Ash had fallen from the cigarette he held; he brushed it off the bedsheet. “Made a habit of it, got a reputation, an’ preferred Spike to William.”

“Do you feel guilty about it now? You’ve kept the name.”

“Buffy,” he said, a warning in his tone. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth,” she replied, laying her head on his chest, an arm across his stomach. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Well, truth is, I don’t spend much time on guilt. Not since the early days, anyway.” He stroked her hair with his free hand, fingertips massaging her scalp. “I was what I was, did what I did. For me, would be pointless to keep goin’ on about it, an’ tedious besides. I’ll leave the endless atonement to Angel.”

She didn’t speak of her ex unless Spike brought him up first, and even then kept it to a minimum. It wasn’t that Spike discouraged it, but that Buffy wanted to make it clear—Angel no longer occupied her mind, was no longer first in her heart.

“Ever wish you could lose your soul?”

“It’s made me into someone you can love, so no.”

“Exactly. You turned your world upside down, permanently. For me. For _this_ , these handful of months, a tiny piece of your forever. And I know you loved your world; you told me yourself enough times. The rush, the freedom. No rules, right? You don’t want that back?”

“I _want_ you. I want _this_. For as long as I can have it.”

“And when I’m gone,” she said, giving voice to a question she’d asked herself many times. “How will you feel then?”

He looked indignant, slid out from under her, clamping his cigarette between his lips while he pulled on jeans. “I may have gotten my soul back for you, but the wretched thing means you’re not my bloody Jiminy Cricket anymore.”

Wrapping the sheet around herself, she followed Spike into the kitchen. He emptied a blood bag into a mug—she’d had Giles convince The Council to send a weekly stipend of cruelty-free human type O negative—and put the cup in to warm, slamming the microwave door and mashing buttons. He extinguished his cigarette under the sink tap, then leaned against the counter with his arms crossed.

“I’ll stay on the mostly-straight-and-narrow, if that’s what you’re askin’.” He spat the words in her direction, which Buffy found oddly comforting. It was the first real show of anger directed toward her since they’d reunited, and it made things feel normal. As wonderful as he’d been, a consistently even-tempered Spike was unnatural.

“I know you will. That’s not it.” She looked into his face with concern written all over hers. “I’m worried.”

“About what? Let’s have it.”

“I—the soul—I’m worried I’ve ruined your life.”

“Oh, rubbish. It was my decision, Slayer. A deliberate choice. Even if I loathe it a hundred years from now, it will be no fault of yours.” The microwave dinged, but Spike ignored it, staring at her like she was a stranger. “Fuckin’ hell, girlie. What’s gotten into you _?”_

Dread. Fear. A sense of culpability she knew was unfounded and irrational but couldn’t shake.

“What will you do?” The _without me_ went unspoken, but surely understood.

They’d already established he wouldn’t return to Drusilla with a soul in tow, or couple with some run-of-the-mill vampire. And loving another mortal would put him right back here, in half a century at best. Even if he decided to take up the mission again, allow that to be his purpose, where would he go? Aside from Dawn, her friends had never really been his, and she was certain he’d sooner dust than voluntarily team up with Angel again. A vampire who couldn’t let loose his demon, who made enemies faster than friends, and had no woman to shower his bottomless affection upon—how lonesome he’d be.

Spike pushed off the counter and took her in his arms. “It’s all right, pet. Yeah, it’ll hurt like hell, but I’ll survive.”

“I don’t want you to just survive. I want you to be happy.”

If someone had told her, upon their first meeting in the alley behind The Bronze, what he’d mean to her someday, she would have laughed so hard she puked. Hell, she _had_ laughed, in the back room of the Magic Box with Giles, doubled over the pommel horse after summarizing that whole miserable year, ending with the most absurd and disturbing part—her affair with Spike. Yet here she was, Buffy the righteous Slayer, being held by her vampire, _this close_ to wishing he could return to his old, murderous self after she died, simply so he wouldn’t be alone in the world. God, what loving him—finally, fully, and openly—was doing to her.

* * *

From the beginning, Buffy had discouraged visitors during daylight hours, giving Spike the option of leaving when guests arrived—an opportunity he took advantage of most frequently when Angel came in from LA, or if Xander showed up without Dawn. It had been a few weeks since her sister had announced the relationship, and while Buffy hadn’t been shocked by the information, she was bothered that Spike had kept it from her—“ _Not like she_ told _me, luv. What was I supposed to do?”_ —and as a consequence she’d planned a core-member Scooby gathering and mandated his presence.

To that end, they had been clothing and supply shopping for the past few hours. Or, more accurately, Buffy had been shopping while Spike stood around looking bored.

They’d started in Midtown, which under normal circumstances would have felt like Christmas—Bergdorf’s and Saks 5th Ave with an unlimited budget—but something about needing a new wardrobe due to uncontrollable weight loss put a damper on her experience.

She had been to see her oncologist that afternoon, who’d diagnosed cachexia caused by elevated levels of cytokines, which were something that did something, and she could expect something, something, whatever. She hadn’t been paying attention. Honestly, she hadn’t listened to a word he’d said after ‘terminal’, months ago.

She’d only contacted the doctor at all because Spike had insisted upon it when her clothes began hanging on her like drapes. She put him off as long as she could, but he’d called Dawn in to present a united front. She wasn’t sure why they needed to know what was broken when there was no fixing it, but she’d finally agreed after extracting a promise from Spike to accompany her for frivolous spending after nightfall.

Back uptown, they exited onto Lexington Ave, having added several outfits from Bloomingdales to the pile. Spike offered to hold her bags, but she refused, unwilling to admit the large haul actually felt _heavy._

He lit a cigarette, which he had done every time they left a shop, as if the relief of escaping a department store was equal to taking down an exceptionally nasty demon.

“Wanna cab it, luv?” he asked. “A bit of a trek to get home.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “We’ll walk.”

“Fine, then stuff your ego for once and give me the soddin’ bags,” he grumbled, and this time she put up no resistance because her shoulder was fucking killing her. Still, it was unsettling, and would have been humiliating if she were with anyone other than Spike, who respected her too much to even think the word _weak_ , even though he was significantly stronger than her now, a gap that widened every day.

She’d begun to feel like she had during the Cruciamentum. She’d begun to feel like just a girl.

* * *

The Scoobies were clustered in the penthouse lounge, chatting. French doors to the balcony were swung outward, a cool night breeze ruffling the semi-sheer curtains and circulating the room. On the white leather sectional, Giles, Xander, and Willow sat discussing the deployment of reinforcements to Cleveland. In the years since Sunnydale fell, the midwestern hellmouth had become the prime vacation destination for the forces of darkness, and Faith needed back-up. Buffy felt a pang of guilt for her own uselessness. She’d once longed for the day she could lay down her stake, but she’d never intended to be forced out of the fight.

Occupying an armchair on the opposite side of the room, Angel set himself apart, as he always did now. He had a new staff at Angel Investigations 2.0, but he never brought anyone along on his twice monthly trips out to see Buffy. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding getting close to anyone. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; all his friends were dead.

Dawn and Spike were at the other end of the couch, heads together conspiratorially, which meant Buffy was the topic of conversation.

“Would anyone like a drink?” She asked, wide-smiled, playing cheerful hostess to the extreme. The scheduled event had fallen on a night when she was particularly ragged, but determined to hide that fact, enjoy a visit with her friends that did not include sympathetic looks or inquiries into her declining health.

She took beverage requests and headed to the kitchen, Spike at her heels, no doubt ready to call her on the front she was putting up.

“Don’t start,” she said, placing a serving tray on the marble countertop, loading it with wine glasses and tumblers. “You’re not getting out of this under the guise of concerned boyfriend, so there’s no use trying.”

“Here to help. Nothin’ more.”

“Of course,” she said as she poured alcohol. “So, you’ll have no problem serving these, then?” Handing him the tray, she added, “And _try_ to be civil to Angel.

He smirked and turned heel, calling into the other room. “Oi, Peaches, stop sulkin’ in the corner an’ come get pissed.”

As soon as Spike was out of sight, Buffy sagged against the refrigerator, inhaling deeply to steady herself. She felt like one large open wound, as if she were wandering around without skin. Grabbing her purse from the counter, she rummaged through it until she found the Oxy Spike had recently brought home along with a fresh carton of cigarettes. He hadn’t said a word, just plopped down on the couch beside her, set the bottle on the coffee table, and turned the television to some old grindhouse film. Later, she’d tossed the pills into her bag, not ready to accept the need for them, but unable to protest any longer.

Unscrewing the cap, she swallowed two tablets and chased them with a glass of Riesling, which she then refilled.

_Fuck it._

“Now that the new recruits have all been accounted for, I can stop with the nomad life.” Xander was saying when Buffy rejoined the group.

“We’re getting a place in Bath,” Dawn added. “Close to Headquarters.” It was a strange sight, her sister sitting next to Xander with a hand on his thigh. She tried to shake it off, reminding herself that Dawn was an adult.

Spike stood drinking whiskey next to the chair he’d not convinced Angel to vacate. Buffy sidled over to Spike, his arm automatically slipping around her waist.

“So, you’ve decided? You’re joining The Council?” Willow asked, tucking her feet underneath her on the sofa.

“Seems like the logical choice,” Dawn said. “Xander’s heading up a team of Slayers as Watcher, but I’ll be joining the research department.”

“A valuable addition, to be sure,” Giles said, raising his glass in her direction. 

“I’ll miss Italy, but there’s no reason to stay. It’s not much fun without you there, Buff.”

Buffy had left for Manhattan after her initial diagnosis to be near the team of doctors at Sloane Kettering, but she’d encouraged Dawn to finish school abroad, not wanting to uproot her yet again.

“Yeah,” Buffy tapped a finger against her wine glass. “Rome was a great time.”

“We _know_.” Spike and Angel said simultaneously, wearing near-identical scowls.

She laughed. Andrew had told her about the vampires’ mission to rescue her from The Immortal. “Oh, for God’s sake. It was nothing serious. Was I supposed to be celibate?” She looked up at Spike. “Were _you?”_

“Not the point. _I_ didn’t shag one of your enemies.”

“If I avoided sleeping with everyone you hated, I’d _definitely_ have been celibate,” she teased. “And I heard Harmony worked for Angel, which I’m sure you fully took advantage of.”

“Not fully.” Spike grinned, winked. “Had to knock her out before I could finish.”

“What? I know she’s annoying, but _Jesus_.”

“Long story. Anyway, wouldn’t have mattered. Was _you_ I wanted,” he said, raw hunger in his eyes.

She blushed, hid her smile by taking another drink.

“I’d prefer a change of subject,” Giles said, already cleaning his glasses.

Angel rolled his eyes dramatically. “Seconded.”

“Seen my fags, Slayer?”

“I put them on the balcony,” she said, nodding in that direction. “Spare everyone else the second-hand smoke.”

Spike brought his lips to her ear. “Keep me company.” Leading her outside, he wrapped her in his arms, burying his face in her neck, lips drifting along the hollow of her throat. 

Swallowing a moan, Buffy wriggled out of Spike’s grasp to close the balcony doors on Angel’s pained expression.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Spike gave her a ‘who, me?’ look she didn’t buy for a second. “Not sure what you mean.”

“Marking your territory, much?” she huffed. “There’s no need to rub his nose in it.”

His grin was unapologetic. He grabbed his Marlboros from the patio table. “Beg to differ, baby.”

The soft glow from his lighter cast shadow on his handsome, sharp-angled face. Dipping his head, he brought cigarette to flame, cupping a hand around the lick of fire, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled. Snapping the Zippo’s lid closed, he reached for her again; she didn’t resist as he drew her close with one arm.

“Have I told you how gorgeous you look?” he murmured, fingertips stroking her bare skin between high-waisted black Palazzo pants and the gauzy cotton of a cropped red blouse. He moved his hand up her spine, gathered long blonde hair in his fist, tugging her head back to capture her mouth.

She’d never imagined finding the flavor of smoke and whiskey arousing, but both were so inextricably intermingled with Spike, sex, and desire, that they elicited a Pavlovian response—the rush of heat and moisture to her cunt, the pulsing of flesh. It made her want to climb him like a goddamn tree. 

She was seconds from acting on that impulse when he pulled away, brow furrowing. Buffy glanced over her shoulder at the blurry outlines of her friends through the drapes, then back at Spike. “What?”

He hopped onto the balcony railing, gesturing to the ashtray she’d bought him the other night, a stainless-steel replica of the human skull. She’d spotted it through a thrift store window as they walked home; it reminded her of the ring he’d offered during his magically-prompted proposal. Over the years, especially in his absence, that memory had softened, reshaped itself into a fond one. Spike hadn’t mentioned the resemblance, but she imagined he knew. She’d never seen the ring again, after the spell was lifted and she’d pulled it from her finger, shoved it at him in disgust.

Passing him the skull, she watched as he rounded his cigarette’s cherry on the rim and took another drag. “Gettin’ bad, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Pills, luv,” he said. “Never tasted ‘em on you before.”

Buffy stepped between his legs, cupped his cheek with one hand. “Can we not do this right now?” She pressed her forehead against his, closed her eyes. “I don’t want to be sick tonight. Please?”

She stood still, waiting for him to relent. “Go on,” he said finally, turning his head to kiss her palm. “Your mates are missin’ you. I’ll be in.”

She stepped back, tried to catch his eye, give him a smile, but he kept his gaze fixed on the ashtray, crushing out his cigarette and reaching for another.

* * *

Buffy noted Spike’s detachment the remainder of the night. He said little beyond what was required of him, and once the group had dispersed, he sent her to bed, offering to clean up the remnants of the small party. She knew he really wanted time to drink and smoke in peace now her friends had gone, but accepted without protest. Leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor, she crawled under the covers, drifted off in seconds.

She woke to Spike’s head between her thighs, the feather-light feel of his lips on her folds. Arching her back, Buffy strained for more contact, but he kept himself just out of reach, began lapping at her slowly, enough to draw her to the edge and leave her teetering there. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, held her hands so she couldn’t grab his hair, made her writhe and plead until she felt she’d go mad from wanting, then—finally!—dragged her to his mouth by her hips, applying a steady suction on the swollen bundle of nerves that set her buzzing from head to toe. She came hard, synapses firing like downed power lines.

Spike moved up her body, his cock pushing into her smoothly. He hovered above her, mindful of his weight, but she could no longer bear any amount of separation. Wrapping herself around him, she pulled him against her, pain and pleasure coalescing into a swirling mass of sensation. She clutched at him, raked her nails down his back, bit his collarbone. Spike growled, the deep rumble echoing in her bones. She asked him to hold her tighter, fuck her harder. He pounded into her, picking up speed. She cried out, threw her head back…and felt his face shift against her throat.

They froze. His demon had never surfaced impulsively, not even in the dark old days, in the midst of their more perverse games. But they were tapping into their collective violence for the first time in years. It was still there, that gaping black maw ready to swallow them whole. It was massive. It was profound. It was almost too much.

Almost.

“It’s ok, baby.” She tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head back to see his true face. “Stay with me.” Staring into amber eyes, she began moving beneath him, coaxing him back into action. “I trust you.”

He snarled, buried himself in her to the hilt, drew back, drove in. She bent her knees, heels digging into the mattress, hips snapping to meet his punishing thrusts.

 _Faster. Harder_. _More. Please._

She kissed him roughly, cutting herself on his fangs. He sucked the blood from her tongue. She let him, knowing he wouldn’t harm her, not caring if he did. She never felt more alive than when he was surrounding her—above, below, inside.

He could do what he wanted. If he’d tried, she would have let him open a vein.


	5. Anything for You

It had been selfish, getting rough with her. She'd asked for it, yes, but Spike had known it was reckless, that it wouldn't be his body taking the damage. Still, he was no bloody saint; he couldn't resist her darkness, feeding right into his, blurring the lines between fucking and fighting. He'd missed it, how brutal she could be. Missed it enough to forget himself, forget that she was suffering, and would die, sooner even than the doctors predicted. He'd smelled it on her, tasted it in her precious blood. Not sickness anymore, but death itself. He didn't know if she'd realized it yet, and if she hadn't, whether he was honor bound to tell her.

He placed opiates and a tall glass of water on her bedside table. "Buffy."

She opened her eyes, looking at him in a way he'd only hoped she would again, back when he was walking through walls at Wolfram & Hart.

"Hey." Her voice was hoarse. "What time is it?"

"Early still. Take these." He placed the meds in her hand. "No arguments."

"Yes, sir," she said coquettishly, popping the pills into her mouth and reaching for the glass, chugging water as though she'd been lost in the desert for days.

"How do you feel?" he asked, guilt nipping at him like a rambunctious puppy.

"Paying the price already." Passing back the empty glass, she covered his fingers with her own, smiled softly. "Not that I mind."

He bent to kiss her forehead. "Go back to sleep, luv."

Despite the safety of tempered glass, the brightness kept Spike from sleeping during the day, so they'd purchased blackout curtains for the bedroom. He covered the windows now, not wanting Buffy to wake before she'd had enough rest.

"Spike?" she called as he was leaving the room. He stopped in the threshold.

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about last night," she said, nestling back under the covers, curling on her side. "It was worth it."

He thought, _if you say so,_ as he closed the door.

Buffy slept straight through the day, emerging from the bedroom at nine in the evening. Spike was watching a rerun of Passions on Soap Network—blasted series had been cancelled just that year—when she shuffled in wearing an oversized sweatshirt and boy shorts. Rubbing her eyes like a groggy child, she gingerly lowered herself onto the couch next to him. He pretended not to see her flinch.

"What _is_ your fascination with this show?"

"Countless hours to fill when you're stuck hidin' from the sun for centuries. Daytime television has become a staple of the modern vampire's routine," Spike said, muting the TV, propping his booted feet on the coffee table. "Video games as well. Used to have an X-box back in LA." He chose to skip the part where a psycho Slayer drugged him and cut off his hands.

"We can order one," Buffy said with a yawn.

She tapped his arm, so he'd raise it, drape it around her shoulders once she'd plastered herself to his side. The Slayer was a rather affectionate bird, when she was smitten. He liked that in a girl.

"You can turn it back up," she said. "There must be some appeal. My mom was a fan."

"I remember. Watched it together once, at my crypt."

"Hm. She liked you. _Way_ more than Angel, which is pretty funny when you think about it."

"An' I liked her."

Joyce, who'd brained Spike with an axe to save her daughter. How she would hate this, unable to save her daughter now. Spike powered off the television, lit a cigarette to have something to do with his empty hands, which were itching to tear the whole place apart in a fury.

"I wonder if I'll see her this time. Maybe there's a separate dimension for natural deaths." Buffy said it casually, as if she were considering visiting her mum in California for Christmas. The next moment, she turned contemplative, her expression closing like a fist. "Do you think Heaven will take me back?"

"Who else would be welcome, if not you?"

"Tara. She was a better person than I am."

"She was better than all of us," Spike conceded. "Me especially, of course. But you, you are more than worthy of Paradise. Don't need another martyrdom to prove it."

"I wish I believed that."

He had no response. He couldn't convince her, not without certainty, of which he had none, because what the fuck did _he_ know about any afterlife besides hell?

Buffy rose from the couch, began pacing the living room. "We need to get the fuck out of here."

Spike watched her warily. "Where to?"

"Honestly? A cemetery. Or anywhere else we can find vampires. I want to _slay_ something."

Spike sat up straight, took a long pull on his cigarette. "I've always got your back, luv, but at the risk of pissing you off, I gotta say I don't think we should."

"You're the one who keeps going on about how I'll always be a Slayer. Well, I _really_ don't want the title to be figurative right now."

"An' if it goes pear-shaped? I have to step in, you'll resent me for it," he said, smoke chasing his words.

"I will not."

Spike cocked his head to one side with a scoff. When had she ever fooled him? Even as enemies, he saw through Buffy like her skin was made of tissue paper.

"Don't lie to me, baby. You'll say it doesn't matter, an' you'll try to believe it doesn't matter, but it will. You'll just feel worse, an' shut me out. I can't have that."

"I miss the fight," she stopped walking, mournful tears springing up, falling unchecked down her cheeks. "I miss my _power_."

"I know you do." For all her pining over a normal life, she needed the hunt, the kill, same as him. She must feel like he had when first chipped—and what torment _that_ had been.

"I am so weak."

"There's more to strength than being able to kick my ass," he joked, grinding out his cigarette. "There's more to _you_."

"Yeah?" She spread her arms wide, looked down at the body that was failing her. "What's left of me, Spike? Is this what you imagined our life together would be? Is this who you love?"

He stood, crossing the room to her. "I never imagined we'd have a life together, so I'm savorin' every moment. An' for the record, I love _all_ of you—Slayer, Buffy, woman, warrior. Always have. Whatever gets whittled away, there's not a single part of you I don't want. As a matter of fact…"

He swept her into his arms. It was unlikely she would have tolerated such a gesture before, but she didn't protest, putting her arm around the back of his neck, resting her head on his shoulder. As he walked to the bedroom, a sudden image of Drusilla flashed in his mind. He'd cradled her like this, spinning her around when she was too weak and wounded to dance with him. Except he'd made her well again. He'd done for Dru what he couldn't for Buffy, and so his sire would live on long after his Slayer was gone.

_What will you do?_

He had no fucking idea.

* * *

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Spike leaned over the coffee table and broke bud apart with his fingers, using one of Buffy's fashion magazines to keep the pile neat—not like she needed rubbish advice on _100 Ways to Please Your Man_. When the flower was free of stems and ground fine enough, he sprinkled a thick line along a creased sheet of rolling paper, then pinched each side with a forefinger and thumb.

"How do you know how to do that?" Buffy asked from the couch as she watched him roll.

Spike sealed the joint with his tongue, twisted the end. "I'm fuckin' old. I know how to do most things."

"Yeah, but since when do you smoke weed? You and whiskey are like this," she said, her first and middle fingers crossed.

"Booze is my preferred poison, true. But the '60s…were the '60s. Pot was the least of it." He put the paper tip over his lighter until it caught, then puffed. "This shite's gotten a lot stronger, though, so go easy."

"I have no frame of reference," she said with a shrug. "Never tried it before."

Spike shook his head. "Bloody hell, woman. What did you _do_ with your adolescence?"

"Saved the world, thank you very much," she said, playfully haughty.

"You'd think the constant mortal danger would've made you a bit more adventurous in your leisure time. You only live once, an' all that."

"Well, I've lived three lives, and none of them included delinquency."

"Aye. See where that's gotten you?" he said with a smirk.

He was making light of Buffy's condition right along with her now. In the past six weeks—since she began leaning heavily on painkillers, and her appetite became nonexistent, and she couldn't lift anything much heftier than a gallon of milk—flippancy was the only way Spike could get through the day without a breakdown. The only way Buffy could even get out of bed.

"I don't know about this," she said, holding the joint as though it were a loaded revolver in a round of Russian roulette.

"You need to eat," he coaxed.

What had already been a struggle became an impossibility when severe nausea overtook her. Any and everything made Buffy retch lately; Spike had started drinking his blood cold to spare her the smell. Last night—the end of a third anorexic day—he went looking for a weed dealer, not a difficult thing to sniff out in the city.

"This really helps?"

"Should do. Last time I was stoned, I drained at least—" Spike stopped when Buffy's eyebrows shot up. "—never mind. Yes, it helps. May ease the pain as well. Just take it slow."

Her hesitant inhale was shallow but sent her into a hacking fit all the same.

"Take it slower, apparently," Spike said with a chuckle. He gave her his beer and snagged the joint. "You're all right."

After a few sips from his bottle and a few more deep breaths, she gasped, "Holy shit."

"C'mere, luv."

Buffy joined him on the floor, mimicking his position, her spindly legs bare beneath a black satin robe, arms swallowed by bell-sleeves trimmed with lace. Her skin was hot with neoplastic fever. Again.

"Give us a kiss," he said, then took a hit, drawing the smoke deep into lifeless lungs. As their lips touched and parted, he exhaled into her mouth. "Hold it. Good. Now, let it out."

Buffy exhaled without coughing, so Spike repeated the process. "Better?" he asked.

She lay her head against the couch behind them. "Mmmm. I'm all tingly."

"There's more if you want it later," he said, resting the joint in his ashtray, pushing the coffee table out of the way. "We'll wait a bit to see how you feel about food."

"And how will we pass the time?" she asked with a slow grin, the suggestion alone making Spike hard.

Buffy straddled him, trailed her fingers down his naked chest to his waist. Unfastening his jeans, she rose on her knees to take him in, flexing around him and emitting the throaty sound that was her habit whenever he first filled her—as if she were only complete when connected to his cock. It was a sound that made a man proud.

"Goddamn, Slayer," he said. "Never been another like you."

She blushed, smiled shyly. "It's _us_. You're the only one—the only _anything_ that makes me feel this way. Even now—fuck _—_ I can't give it up. I don't want to. When we're together, like this, I feel like myself."

"Glad for it, pet," he said, slipping the robe from her tiny frame. Oh, but she was disappearing. He could count her ribs individually.

He nuzzled her breasts, traced the faint scars with his lips, the tip of his tongue. Reaching between their bodies, his fingers found her clit, rubbing as she rode. Her lashes fluttered; green eyes rolled back. She kissed him as she came, shaking with the force of it, then pulled back to study his face.

"Spike."

She had a way of infusing such emotion into his name—disgust or desire, depending on the timeline of their relationship—and Spike considered himself a lucky sod to hear love in her tone, at last. If only it _could_ last.

"I don't have much longer," she said, going still in his lap. "But you know that, right?"

Spike frowned. "Buffy, don't."

She took his face in her hands. "I can see it every time you look at me. You _know._ It's going to get real ugly real soon."

He touched her hair, holding a lock between his fingers. "How was I to tell you, lamb? I didn't want to believe it m'self."

She kissed him again, wordless forgiveness, then leaned back, small hands on his denim-clad thighs, hips resuming their undulation. "You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you? You promised."

An alarm sounded in the back of his mind, but between the pot and her pussy, he was too intoxicated to register the urgency. "I did."

"If I asked you to…" she paused, focusing on reaching another orgasm, head thrown back, one hand going to her mons, fingers slipping through soft curls. He moved her hand, replaced it with his own, relished the sight as he brought her off again.

Flipping her onto her back, Spike grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. She used her heels to help him out of his jeans, then clasped her legs around his waist.

Angling himself so Buffy cried out on every thrust, he said, "If you asked me to _what?"_.

"If I asked you—ah!—don't stop. Fuck me. _Fuckfuckfuck."_

She lifted her head to kiss him, but he pulled away. " _What_?" he repeated. He sounded angry, and realized he actually _felt_ angry.

Because he knew what she would ask, what she wanted. He knew.

"Come, Spike. Come with me."

Wrestling his demon to _stay the fuck down_ , he roared. Surging beneath him, rippling around him, she wailed.

He remained inside her after, cock still erect, wanting more—he was never really spent, not with her. Never would be. Flexing his grip around her wrists, he looked at his girl, who would die no matter what he did.

"If I asked you to kill me," she said, staring back at him fiercely, a plea in her eyes, "would you?"


	6. Death Wish

For a few protracted seconds, she thought Spike might punch her, maybe deliver a swift backhand that would leave her cheekbone ringing like a tuning fork. Instead, he kissed her, his anguish so intense she could taste it. He kissed her like he was trying to shove her words back down her throat, the impossible request she’d made, to die by his hand.

The idea wasn’t premeditated, not entirely. It started as a nebulous concept she toyed with in the hospital on nights she couldn’t sleep. A solidified plan formed slowly, in fragments—jagged pieces she cut herself on between doses of morphine. She’d vaguely tested Spike that first day at the apartment, sitting on his lap, his fingers inside her. She regretted the manipulation—of course he’d promise her anything—but she had been frightened, despondent, and not yet sure exactly what she was asking him for.

At the time, the only certainty was her conviction that she couldn’t die like this, disease eating away at her until there was nothing. But the moment he’d confirmed her suspicion, that their remaining time was much shorter than predicted, she decided she’d rather feed what little was left of herself to him—her single-minded vampire lover, Slayer of Slayers. There was no better option. His fangs were sharp as hypodermic needles; he’d be gentle. _I’ll make it quick. It won’t hurt a bit._

Spike freed her mouth reluctantly, seemed concerned she’d repeat her devastating question. But all she asked was that he fuck her again, take her however he liked. She focused on his pleasure, offering his favorite positions, ignoring her ravaged body’s screams for reprieve. She wanted to give him this, tie herself to his old whipping post, penance for every time she’d used him in search of peace. And for using him to court her own death, which hadn’t been her original intention, but he’d hardly believe that now.

She climaxed, releasing a string of obscenities and adoration while Spike reached his own ending, after which he rolled away from her, one arm thrown over his eyes to cover the tears she knew he was shedding.

She turned to her side, touched his chest, where his heart would be. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her like she’d spat in his face. A minute later he was dressed and gone. The sun hadn’t set, but he’d find a way to get wherever he was going without bursting into flame, so Buffy didn’t try to stop him. She lay in a pile on the floor, a broken mannequin.

After a while, she realized that cannabis had indeed made her hungry. Picking herself up carefully, she put on her discarded robe and ordered Chinese. When the food arrived, and the smell failed to sicken her, she curled into a corner of the couch, eating sesame chicken and watching a reality show about rich housewives, many of whom weren’t actually married, but whatever. It was simply background noise to the turmoil in her head.

Spike hadn’t returned by the time she finished her meal, or in the hours she waited before going to bed, or the subsequent hours she spent staring at the bedroom ceiling, hands clenched around a blanket. He stumbled in right before dawn, completely blotto, falling into bed without removing his boots or duster. Agitated by his long absence, she’d prepared for an argument, but when she saw him sprawled out, soaked in alcohol and melancholia, the fight left her. He’d been captive to her care for months, not that he’d see it that way—or admit to it if he did. She’d asked him to euthanize her and she was, what, shocked that he went on a bender? No, there was no reason for anger, and no room for it besides. Sadness and pity filled all the space between them.

He mumbled something unintelligible into the mattress.

“Shhh. Rest now. Talk later.”

A grunt, then he reached for her blindly; she nestled into his leather-clad arms and slept.

* * *

Buffy had developed a sense of surprise each time she found herself alive in the morning. It was a brief but intense anxiety, paralyzing her until it passed.

Despite his recent drunkenness, Spike was not asleep beside her when she opened her eyes. She heard water running in the adjoining bathroom, smelled shea butter. She left the bed slowly, the everyday ache seeping into her bones, compounded by the liberties she’d taken with her body the previous afternoon. She felt like a day-old contusion, tender and discolored.

Using the wall to steady herself, she entered the bathroom. A towel slung low around his waist, Spike was leaning over the clawfoot tub, pouring Epsom salt into steaming water.

“Mornin’,” he said without turning.

“What’s this?”

“Thought you could use a soak. You must be wrecked.”

He sounded solemn, keeping his back to her. She came up behind him. “Will you be joining me?”

“Had a shower. Not one for baths. I get bored.”

“I’m sure I could keep you entertained,” she said, kissing the space between his shoulder blades.

“No question.” He stepped aside, eyes averted. “But this is meant to be restorative.”

“Since when are multiple orgasms _not_ restorative?”

“Since yesterday, luv.” He looked at her then, that piercing stare that made her stop breathing.

“Spike, I—”

He groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have your bath before it goes cold. We can talk when you’re done.”

He walked around her; she put a hand on his arm as he passed. “Wait.”

Pulling away, his blue eyes flashed gold. “I’m not playin’, Slayer.”

She felt a stab of insecurity, painfully aware that she no longer had the upper hand here, physically or emotionally. She let him go.

Buffy lingered in the bath. The heat soothed her, but she also wished to delay whatever was about to be said, heard, and felt—none of it good. She submerged herself periodically, holding her breath until her lungs burned, to see how long she could bear it. She imagined how dying would feel this time; she pictured herself in another coffin. When the water turned tepid and her fingertips pruney, she climbed from the tub, dried off, and threw on a mismatched set of pajamas.

Spike was at the dining room table, fully clothed, looking edgy, ready to bolt at any moment. _Fuck._ He sat with an elbow on the table, chin propped in one hand, cigarette resting between his fingers, spent butts already filling the skull ashtray she’d cleaned the night before. There was an empty tumbler in front of him, and the fifth of whiskey next to it was three-quarters gone. _Fuck._ She took a seat across from him, clean hair dripping water down her back as she waited for him to speak. He’d been crying, she could tell. _Fuck._

“I don’t know how I ever thought this would work,” he said.

Fear coiled in her stomach, a snake poised to strike. “Whoa. I get that you’re mad, but—”

“I’m not. Not anymore. Just tired. I want off the bleedin’ merry-go-round, don’t I?” He ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “Nothing’s changed between us, has it? Not really. We fit together brilliantly when we’re fightin’ side by side an’ shaggin’ every which way. But to think we could fit in the real world?” He took a contemplative drag on his cigarette. “Must have been out of my mind.”

Fear turned to panic. She wanted to touch him but knew it wouldn't help. Her hands were shaking; she pressed them between her knees. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ you could have had the witch suss me out ages ago, but you didn’t. What you want from me—it’s the only reason I’m here, yeah? To end your misery, fuck you raw in the meantime?”

He spoke softly. She’d expected shouting; his dismal calm was somehow worse.

“Don’t minimize this. _You_ didn’t want to be found. I decided to give you time, until I didn’t have much left. I wanted to live with you. And yes, I want to die with you.”

“You want to die _f_ _rom_ me. Big difference, innit?” He lit his next cigarette off the smoldering tip of the last. “Why me? I suppose you knew _he_ wouldn’t do it?”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Stop with that shit. This has nothing to do with him. You weren’t second choice.”

Spike sneered, poured a fresh drink, toasted to her. “ ‘S an honor to be your favorite murderer, pet.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Right. You love me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say it like that, air quotes implied. It’s the truth.”

“Got a shite way of showin’ it, sweetheart. ‘Course, you always have.”

_Ouch_. Calm Spike was definitely worse. “That’s not fair.”

“And _this_ is? Pathetic sod that I am, you knew I couldn’t hold out. You knew I’d do whatever you asked. So here I am. For fuck’s sake, Buffy, if you respected me at all, cared anything about who I’ve become, what I’ve tried to be for you, how could you ask me to do this?”

She shook her head vigorously. “I am asking to leave on my own terms. But I need help.” She’d thought about it plenty, turning over possibilities like dice in her hand before a throw. Hoarding pills, jumping from the balcony, hanging from the chandelier. _Come on, Big Red. Mama needs a new way to die_. “I can’t manage it alone. I don’t want Angel. I want you.”

“Because I’m the one capable of hurting you,” he said, his eyes traveling her body, the smattering of bruises that had surfaced from yesterday.

_Oh. Oh, no. No._ “Is that what this is about?”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” she said thickly, choking on a sob. “God, what you must think of me.”

She leaned across the table, grabbed his drink, downed it. He was far better at voicing his feelings, his heart always bleeding on his sleeve. Except, that’s precisely why he could be so defensive, diffident. That same heart had been broken many times, by her especially. 

“I don’t know how else to say it. I love you, Spike. A large part of that love is messy, and brutal, and kinda fucked up. But it’s mine—ours—and I wanted to experience it, without shame, or secrecy, or a fucking apocalypse hanging over our heads. I wanted to be with you, _in the real world,_ before I died. _That’s_ why you’re here.”

Buffy rose from her chair and walked over to him, sat on the floor at his feet. “Please, listen to what I’m telling you. You were my enemy, then my ally. My lover, then my friend. You’ve been everything to me. What I am asking you…I know it’s shitty, and selfish, but who _else_ would do this for me?”

He went silent, pensive, snuffing his cigarette without lighting another. He glanced at the cup she’d emptied, but didn’t refill it.

“If I refuse?”

“I’ll go searching for a fight, and lose to some random demon I could have easily taken down a couple years ago. I’d much prefer you.”

He scowled. “I’m _not_ fighting you. That’s too bloody morbid, Slayer. Even for us.”

“No fighting. We’ll leave our kill-or-be-killed record as a technical draw. But you’ll bag your third Chosen One, the one that got away. No one deserves to drain me more than you do,” she said with a smile, defaulting back to levity now the worst was over.

Spike looked unamused. “That’s how you want it, then? Fangs?”

“Seems easiest.” She held out her hand; he helped her to her feet. “I’d like you to have my blood. I _definitely_ don’t want you to snap my neck.”

He glowered at her. She grasped the lapels of his coat. “That was a joke, baby,” she said gently. “Let it go. I’m dying either way.”

His expression didn’t change. “When?”

“When I’m ready.”

“Soon?”

“Yes,” she said. “But not today.”

She pulled him to her. It was slow and sweet at first, their kiss—that both apologized and forgave—but quickly became urgent, probing tongues and groping hands. Spike lifted her easily as a sack of flour; she wrapped her too-thin limbs around him.

“Been a while since we had a row,” he said.

“Which means it’s been awhile since we made-up.”

“Not sure we ever did, in those days.”

She ran her tongue along the shell of his ear, nipped his earlobe. “Let’s change that.”


	7. Ready or Not

For Spike, the moral implications of taking human life were contextual. Nikki Wood's death did not weigh on his conscience. Same for the Chinese girl whose name he never learned. They weren't helpless innocents; they were warriors. In battle, it's slay-or-be-slain. That's the game, and its only rule. Buffy deserved a Slayer's ending—far more dignified than what was careening toward her—and Spike could give her one.

Except, this would also mean killing the thing he adored most in the world. That's what sent him into the sewers and down the pub that day. The idea that she thought so little of his love, she would have him destroy it with his own hands. He'd sat drinking himself stupid, wondering how she could use him again, a tool to fix what ailed her. He couldn't escape the notion that this had been her aim from the beginning. The possibility that all the exquisite things she'd said leading up to that question, words he'd wanted to hear and believe for years— _I love you. I trust you. I'm all yours_. —had been empty. The sneaking suspicion that he'd been called upon because she wanted what he would be willing to do for (and to) her. Not him. Not really.

He hadn't realized she'd meant it as an offering rather than a burden. He'd never considered that it was evidence of her affection rather than a denial.

It didn't take much to undermine his faith in her feelings toward him. The soul had robbed him of the confidence vampirism had given: the complete certainty that he could have what he wanted, that he was entitled to it, that it was already his. Including Buffy, once he got deep enough under her skin.

He missed that aspect of soullessness. Now, there were times he felt so much like William Pratt he wanted to top himself. Not that it mattered who he was, in order to satisfy her request. Being slave to solicitude was the one thing Spike and William had in common.

So, yeah. He'd kill her. He didn't want to. But he would.

* * *

Her small hand rested on a wooden casket in the cheerfully lit showroom of an otherwise gloomy-as-fuck funeral home. Spike had the urge to throw Buffy over his shoulder and walk out of the place.

"Not my idea of a date night, luv."

"I need to take care of this. Choose everything, prepay. It will be one less thing Dawn has to do. She's sacrificed enough. I want to make this easy on her."

Nothing would make this easy on Dawn—her big sis back in the ground, another huge, unfillable hole in her young, small world.

"You're still set on not tellin' her? Or the others?" He asked carefully.

Buffy kept her eyes on the casket, wiping invisible dust from the polished surface. "I don't want to have this discussion, Spike."

"No, of course not. God forbid you actually let me in on what you're thinkin'."

"Excuse me?"

 _Bollocks._ "Sorry. Haven't been well-mannered since I was a Victorian," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. "It's just, I can feel you closin' up shop."

"I know." Buffy hooked a finger through his belt loop; they took an incongruously casual stroll around the room. "It's not intentional. I'm trying to cope. What's the point of telling them? Hurting everyone sooner than necessary?"

"Are you worried they'll talk you out of it? Because I've got you, Slayer. I'll put a stop to it," he said, kissing her temple.

"I mean, I wouldn't be looking forward to the argument, but they won't change my mind. That's not it. I want to keep it private. Between us." She looked up at him, offered a sad little smile. "That part will be ours alone."

"All right, lamb. I hear you."

Buffy stopped in front of a display case. "I'm thinking of cremation," she said, reaching out to touch a silver and crimson urn. "There's really nowhere I want to be buried. Mom's grave is gone. Anyway, ashes seem appropriate."

"Aye." No body for meddlesome friends to shove her back into. "Who's runnin' this dive, then?"

They sat with the undertaker ("we prefer funeral director these days") and went over details for the memorial. Buffy asked Spike's opinion occasionally—these flowers, those programs, this song, that picture—but otherwise he wasn't obligated to contribute. A small blessing, considering it took all his strength to stay in his chair. She was unemotional, as if planning a service for a barely remembered distant relative. Detachment, his girl's favorite defense mechanism. Not that it made the conversation easier to listen to.

With the contract signed, he watched Buffy write a $6,000 check. "Bloody hell. Gotta be rich just to die."

"Spike." She nudged him under the table.

But he had nowhere else to direct the ire always right beneath the surface these days. "Quite the racket you've got goin', mate."

The bloke stammered something about helping loved ones show respect for the deceased. Buffy cut her eyes at Spike, mouthed _Shut. Up._

Fidgeting with the Zippo in his coat pocket, he grimaced. _Fuck this noise._

"I'll be out front."

Spike strode toward the exit, lighting a cigarette before he reached the door. Once outside, he slid into a crouch against the building, stared at the ground while smoking hands-free, exhaling through his nose like an angry bull.

A few minutes later, her wedge heels came into view, toes painted a pearly pink. "All set," she said, leaning against the wall beside him. "What's got you so grumpy?"

"Humans." He removed the cigarette from his mouth, its column of ash prepared to fall. "You lot have sanitized and neatly packaged death. An' for profit. It's buggered."

"What happened last time?"

"There was a burial. Had to keep it quiet, so word wouldn't spread."

"All the more reason, then."

Taking a last drag before grinding out his cigarette, he said, "You've planned a party you won't be attendin'."

"It's meant for the bereaved. To help."

"Doesn't." Spike stood, walked to the curb to hail a cab. "It will be eventful, at least."

He opened the taxi's door for her; she slid across the cracked leather seats so he could follow.

"Goin' uptown," Spike said, giving their address to the driver.

"What do you mean, 'eventful'?"

"When your pals find out, they'll need someone to blame."

Buffy sighed. "Shit. I hadn't thought about it."

"Reckon Angel will want to scrap. Fine by me. Won't make a difference if I kill him."

The driver looked startled.

"He's joking," Buffy said with a forced laugh. " _Seriously?"_ she whispered harshly to Spike. "And yes, it will."

"Not to me," he said. "Came close in LA. Only restrained myself for you."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Please. You guys are classic frenemies."

"We're what?" He furrowed his brow at the Americanism.

"You may not get along, but there's a connection there. A dysfunctional one, but still. Do you really want to dust him?"

"It's not a goal at the moment, but I wouldn't lose sleep over it, if he gave me a reason." He shrugged. "Suspect he thinks the same."

"And he'll consider this a reason."

Spike brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "I would."

"No," she said, distressed. "I don't want you two fighting."

"You won't exactly be around, pet."

"I'll figure something out."

He'd tell her not to bother, if he thought she'd listen. Whatever happened after she died didn't much matter to him.

* * *

Buffy exhaled, sputtering smoke. "I'm getting the hang of this."

"Don't bogart the thing. There's an etiquette." Spike said from his perch on the counter next to the bathroom sink.

Braced by the door, she took another hit off the joint, watching herself in the mirror. "In fairness, I _need_ this. You don't."

"Not necessarily true. You keep makin' me socialize."

"Well, you won't have to again," she countered wryly.

"Bloody laugh riot, you are."

She hadn't set a specific date, and Spike wouldn't ask, but they both knew her demise was imminent. After the funeral arrangements were made, things started to deteriorate quickly, as though her body was aware its final mandate had been fulfilled. She didn't leave the apartment anymore. He ordered in when she was able to eat, which was less and less even if he smoked her out first. With his substantial assistance, she bathed, washed her hair, and dressed— all of which exhausted her nonetheless—but she absolutely forbade him accompanying her to the toilet, and he was certain she'd decide to die before that became necessary. She stayed in bed most often, only up and about tonight for the sake of her friends, who she didn't want to worry. And only with the help of the transdermal patch he'd placed on the back of her left shoulder, which delivered the highest dosage of fentanyl into her system but still didn't relieve her pain enough that she could hide it from him.

There was a knock at the bathroom door, then Dawn's voice. "Will you guys cool it for once? The food's here."

Buffy opened the door and pulled her sister in by the arm, giggling. "We're not doing anything. Well, not what you're thinking, anyway."

They hadn't fucked in weeks, which troubled Buffy despite his repeated insistence that he didn't mind.

"It reeks in here," Dawn said. Her eyes widened at the sight of the two of them. " _Buffy!"_

"It was Spike's idea. He's a very bad influence," Buffy said with faux derision.

"Don't look so scandalized, Platelet." Spike took a hit, then another. "It's for medicinal purposes."

"Yeah? And what's _your_ condition, Spike?" Dawn asked, crossing her arms.

"Boredom."

Buffy laughed loudly, then put a finger to her lips. "Shhh," she admonished herself.

"I'd say that's enough for you, Slayer," He offered the joint to Dawn instead. When she declined, he finished it himself, tossed the roach into the toilet.

"Everyone's waiting," Dawn said, walking from the room.

Buffy kissed him. "Uh-oh. I think we're in trouble."

He smirked. "Always."

They wandered into the lounge. Buffy joined her friends on the couch, pulling Spike down next to her.

"We settled on pizza," Willow said a bit too brightly, her smile a bit too wide. "Hope that's ok."

"That actually looks good." Buffy grabbed a slice from the open box on the coffee table. "See, Dawnie? Medicinal."

"What's she talking about?" Xander asked, his mouth full.

"Buffy and Spike were getting high in the bathroom." Dawn sounded like a schoolmarm.

"Well, when you say it like that it seems childish," Spike replied.

Giles sighed. "Oh, for goodness' sake."

"Where are you going?" Buffy asked as soon as Spike stood, an anxious edge to her tone.

"Need a drink."

He retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the kitchen, poured a tall glass. When he reclaimed his place beside Buffy—who moved into her place under his arm— he watched the core Scoobies, crowded together to eat, swapping stories and laughing about situations that weren't funny when they happened. Spike had no desire to reminisce. He would have cleared off entirely this evening, but Buffy wanted him around at all times now, as if afraid she'd die while he was out.

Spike stayed quiet and observed them, these people he'd known for years but would never really call friends—the whelp, the Watcher, and the witch. He'd both threatened and saved their lives many times, fought at their sides, lived with and among them. But it was the Slayer holding them together.

He wondered what they'd do, if they knew this would be the last they'd see of her.

Earlier that day, Buffy had shut herself away to record a video. Something to explain her choice, once it was a fait accompli. Something to release Spike from culpability. She hadn't asked him to review it, and he hadn't offered.

Honestly, he didn't care what her friends assumed. If they thought he'd murdered her, so be it. Angel would attack him, probably Xander would too. Maybe Dawn would set him on fire while he slept, like she'd threatened to before; maybe Red would obliterate him with a flick of the wrist. No big deal. If he dusted, he'd never have to decide what the fuck to do with himself. Four years apart from Buffy had been tolerable because he knew she was thriving in the world, living the life his sacrifice had helped her attain. Existing without her, completely and eternally…he couldn't imagine what would be left for him.

* * *

Through the walls, Spike listened to her weep, guttural and incapacitating. He'd walked to the corner bodega for cigarettes, returned to find Buffy keening like a wounded animal. He wanted to go to her, but she'd barred him from the bedroom, and wouldn't speak at all until he'd threatened to _break the fucking door down, Slayer!_ She answered him then, but only to tell him to leave her be. So, he sat next to the door, drinking, smoking, and cursing the miserable universe.

When her sobs diminished, Spike swallowed the last of his whiskey, dropped his cigarette in the dregs at the bottom of the bottle, and tapped on the door with one knuckle. "Let me in now, luv."

He heard shuffling, sniffling, then the lock turned. Buffy, eyelids swollen, face splotchy from crying, threw open the door and staggered back to bed. He followed, lay down with her, smoothing the hair away from her wet face, whispering comfort in her ear until she stopped shaking. She slept for a short while; he watched over her as he had in Sunnydale, that abandoned house, the best night of his life. And this would be the worst.

Upon waking, she kissed him, and he could smell her arousal. She wanted a fuck, which only strengthened his sense of impending doom.

"Baby," he said, gently pushing her away from him. "You're in no shape for this."

"I don't care."

" _I_ do."

"You can't tell me no, Spike. Even now. _Especially_ now."

She pulled off her nightgown, revealing her tiny frame that was almost gone. He loved it all the same, and her. And no, he could deny her nothing.

She asked him to undress for her, watched him raptly, like she was memorizing him—his face, his body, the exact blue shade of his eyes. He hoped she could see the depth of his love for her. He hoped she'd not forget that. Her gaze lingered until her eyes glistened with tears, then she beckoned him. He took her slowly, thoroughly, kissing her throughout, his hands roaming, touching every part of her that he would miss like fire. Her orgasms were quiet, but seismic; she trembled against him each time she came. He held his own climax at bay, neither one of them wanting to stop. She couldn't die if they never stopped.

But she looked so tired.

"It's ok, Spike," she murmured, kissing each one of his closed eyelids, then his lips. "I'm ready."

She sounded calm, placid. He suspected she just didn't have the energy for sadness, or anger, or another day of pain. He wanted to argue, convince her to fight, to stay, to not leave him, not yet. She might be ready, but he never would be. She'd thought asking him for this gift was selfish; worse still, he'd made her feel it was. But he was the selfish one. He was again tempted to turn her, to keep her with him. How could he lose her?

Forever was so goddamn long.


	8. What Will You Do?

Buffy encouraged Spike to finish, though she knew he didn't want to, because it would also mean _she_ was finished. Which she was. If she delayed much longer, she may as well let the cancer take her. She needed to do this while she was at least the faintest shadow of her former self. While she could walk, and talk, and have one last indulgence with the personification of carnality, her vampire.

This unusual and complicated demon, who was somehow completely transparent yet never entirely knowable. Who admired her without feeling intimidated, like Riley, or protective, like Angel. Who wanted her because of her calling, not in spite of it, taking her kisses in gratitude and her blows in stride. Who'd damaged her in an unimaginable way, then shattered himself to pieces to be worthy of her—and still seemed to think he wasn't. Who knew all her failings and loved her regardless, with an intensity that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

If she had to die young. If she had to die. Let it be with Spike.

She embraced him while he came, felt his ambivalence—pleasure eclipsed by grief, his body heavy with sorrow. She tasted tears when she kissed him; she wasn't sure whose.

They lay together quietly. She could sense Spike waiting for her word, which she would give as soon as she could will herself to. She was prepared to die, but not to leave him. Three months was all they'd had, like some adolescent summer camp romance.

"You can stay here. After…you can live here," she said finally, her head pillowed on his chest—silent and motionless as her own would be. "The place is yours. You like New York. You should have a home here."

"You are my home."

A simple statement of fact. The sky is blue. The world is round. You are my home.

_Dear God._

"But this'll do fine for shelter, pet," he added. "Thank you."

She wanted to pester him again about his plans, once he'd played Kevorkian and was left to himself. He was unlikely to tell her even if he knew, and she suspected he didn't. Forethought was not one of Spike's considerable skills. Neither was prudence, which is what concerned her, drove her to tell Giles she wanted Spike to keep the apartment. If he had a place to stay—and mourn, and rage, and drink himself into oblivion—she wouldn't need to worry.

Her eyes found the small handheld camera resting on the bureau. "You'll make sure Dawn gets my video?"

"Of course."

She couldn't recall exactly what she'd said while recording, and couldn't stand to watch it either. Whatever message she'd left was far less profound than the one she'd given her sister before jumping from Glory's tower, but so was everything about this inconsequential ending, so it didn't matter. As long as everyone understood, and no one faulted Spike, although she got the feeling he wanted them to.

"It's ok if you skip the funeral."

"I know."

"Dawn has Xander. You don't need to go."

"I know."

"I love you."

He was silent for an excruciating moment. "I know."

She truly hoped he did.

Spike ran his fingertips up her spine. "Certain you're ready?"

"I am." Her mouth was parched, her voice raspy. "Are you?"

He said, "No," then sat up and gathered her into his arms.

"But you'll be ok?"

For once she didn't fight her tears or turn away. She needed to see his beautiful eyes. Every woman deserved—even once—to be looked at the way Spike always looked at her. How she would miss those eyes.

"Everythin' will turn out the way it should," he murmured, cupping her cheek in one hand. "Don't vex yourself anymore, Slayer."

She kissed him—sentimental but not salacious, like a bride on her wedding day—and nodded once, deliberate and final.

"I love you," Spike said as his features shifted. He put his mouth to her throat, opposite her old scar.

She couldn't speak. She didn't want to use the word 'goodbye'.

Her heart was a battering ram against her chest wall. Her breath shallow, her skin flushed. When his fangs broke through, she didn't flinch, only sighed, relaxing against him.

* * *

Her blood filled his mouth, Slayer-potent and saturated with narcotics. It was dizzying; Spike resisted the urge to bite down, tear her throat apart. She was not a conquest. He would not make this hurt. Every swallow warmed him, the rushing sound pounding in his ears, like diving deep underwater. As her pulse rate slowed, he wanted badly to pull away, but she placed a hand on the back of his neck, gripped as firmly as she was able until he'd passed the point of no return and her arm went slack.

He retracted his teeth, pressed his lips to the punctures, and held her, counting the last beats of her heart.

_Five…four…three…two…one…gone._

He was dry-eyed and numb as he lay Buffy out on the bed. This pain went beyond crying, beyond any emotion he could access. He watched himself move mechanically, as if he were trapped in the back of his own skull and peering through binoculars. Putting on clothes, lacing his boots. In the bathroom he filled a basin with hot water, took it and a soft cloth to the nightstand. He washed her body—just a body, now—carefully. Her small hands, emaciated arms and legs, concave stomach, gaunt, beautiful face. With her eyes closed, she could have been sleeping, except she never slept soundly anymore. She appeared peaceful, or maybe that's what he wanted to see.

He covered her in a clean nightgown, its long white silk. Ran a boar bristle brush through her golden hair until it shone. Smoothing the sheets beneath her, he positioned her arms, hands overlapping at the navel.

Looking at her, he'd never felt so dead. He retrieved his cigarettes and lighter from his duster, and with them a folded piece of lined paper that smelled of Buffy. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter she'd penned in her loopy, girlish handwriting:

_Spike,_

_Do you remember that night at The Bronze?_

_I was wrong. You're not beneath me. I'm glad it was you._

_Have yourself a real good day._

_Have a good life._

_Please._

_-Buffy_

He stared at the page until the words started to blur, then snapped open his Zippo and sparked the flint. He held her note over the flame, letting it burn. When the fire scorched his fingers, he dropped the paper and stood to grind it under his boot. He put Buffy's camera into one of his coat pockets and draped the leather over her body. She had been so cold lately, shivering even when bundled in layers. He kissed her forehead and left her lying there—his Slayer, his girl.

In the kitchen, Spike opened a full bottle of liquor, not bothering with a cup. The sky was starting to brighten; he gazed out the windows, through the glass she'd had installed. For him. Because she wanted him to feel at home. But he hadn't been exaggerating. Without her, he had no home.

He walked across the apartment and out onto the balcony, leaving the double doors open behind him. Sitting in a patio chair, Spike leaned back and propped his boots on the railing, his ankles crossed. He took a swig of whiskey, lit a cigarette, and settled in to watch the sun rise.


End file.
